


Texts From The Veil

by Grimmalie



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Texting, only mostly dead, queliot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 01:43:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmalie/pseuds/Grimmalie
Summary: Quentin died on Thursday.The first text came on Tuesday.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just an idea I ran with post season 4. This fic is not my wish, it's just an idea I had. Please feel free to give me ALL the feedback! I'm hoping to scrub this up in the future as an original story!

Quentin died on Thursday.

The first text came on Tuesday.

Really, Eliot had brought it on himself, texting out into the void like it would somehow bring him the catharsis he craved like booze and cigarettes and jelly donuts, none of which he was allowed to have with a gut wound. Stupid shit. I love you and I’m sorry and I wanted to be with you sprinkled through with things like Had tuna salad for lunch. It should be a crime for hospital cafeterias to serve tuna salad.

It was about as effective as peeing on a pile of ashes, long after the building had burned down.

  
He’d just finished a fresh shame spiral, filled with the usual platitudes. (I was scared to be close to you, I planned to tell you but we just ran out of time, sorry for all those times I called your dick average you aren’t I’m just used to a lot bigger and it was part of the whole scared-to-be-close deflection crap and also it was in another timeline so I’m not sure if it even counts in this one.) when the reply came.

**_You’re lucky I’m not vain. You could have given me a real complex._ **

The phone slid from Eliot’s fingers, plopping softly on the thin, itchy infirmary blanket. He waited for the phone to blow up or transform or...something. But it didn’t. It was just him sitting alone in with a phone in front of him. The phone that buzzed again with another message.

_**Hey El.** _

Eliot’s breath caught in his chest, and the familiar symptoms of a panic attack settled around him like rising water. Heat burned deep in his ears. The world shimmered like a mirage at the corners of his eyes as his palms moistened and his throat tightened. The gooseflesh rippled up on his arms as he caught his breath and glanced around. Outside, the sun still shone, still petulantly golden and bright. Students scurried back and forth and Eliot sort of wanted to scream at them.

How dare you smile? How dare you care so much about your stupid finals? The bastard who made sure you still had magic to care about is dead and you’re still moving forward.  
For the first time, he understood Mr. Guthrie sitting out on his porch with his iced tea and his cane, snarling at them for getting too close to his begonias. Deep down, he’d always suspected the old fart didn’t give a shit about his stupid flowers and that something must have happened to him to make him mean-spirited and petty. Maybe that was his future. Old Mr. Waugh, the insufferable dick, sitting on the cottage porch, yelling at the fresh grad students about not appreciating magic enough.

Because Quentin was dead. Quentin was dead and Eliot was finally, finally having his full mental breakdown. It would have saved everyone so much trouble if he’d done this years ago.

The phone buzzed again.

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut and shoved it under his pillow. A muffled buzz pierced right through his chest, then stopped.

His head fell forward into his hands. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, he’d let himself check his phone and, when he saw there were no texts, he’d chuck it in the fire and check him into whatever kind of asylum they had for magicians.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The infirmary is a great place to lose your mind.

Quentin always had this quality of untapped potential about him. Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome from too many white male protagonists over the years but Quentin just felt like the kind of guy destined to be a hero. He was nerdy and awkward and good at heart. He believed in magic like most people believed the earth was round. Which, flat-earthers aside, was saying something. 

  


And his hands. They were always twitching. Eliot had spent a lot of time watching Quentin’s hands over the years. A first, he’d thought he was practicing this or that popper, except he never did it when he focused on something. It was in those quiet moments when he wasn’t talking. When they were alone and the quiet settled like a mist around them. He twitched, like there was some kind of energy in him that had to become kinetic or it would explode. 

  


For his part, Eliot had always tried to be still in those moments. To laze like a big cat, momentarily sated and uninterested in the hunt. It was one of the things about intentionally creating a persona. When you did that, impulse went out the window and careful planning became second nature. But there was nothing pre-planned with Quentin. 

  


He was so raw and so real that just being around him sometimes made Eliot feel as though he was being stripped down to his ugly, bloody center. 

  


The thing was, he felt that way all the time. Just being stuck in the infirmary eliminated his ability to not feel vulnerable. It was stupid. This was a school of magic, but it still managed to reek of antiseptic. Margo did what she could to keep him company. She visited every day.

  


“I brought some of your scarves. I thought you could stand to make this place less depressing.”

  


“Josh tried out patisserie today. Do you want some eclairs? Warning, there’s pot in them, but the doctor said it was fine.”

  


“I took pictures of the incoming first years. I will bet you anything this one’s a telepath.”

  


She was, in a word, magnificent. Which he was considering using as a synonym for Margo at this point. His ferocious, destructive, ambitious Bambi. He wasn’t sure what he’d have done if she hadn’t been there with him when he woke up. He wasn’t sure if anyone else could have broken the news about Quentin. 

  


Because that was just his fucking life, wasn’t it? He found someone, but he picked on him because he was a scared kid.

  


He found someone, but he got possessed by the Beast.

  


He found someone, but he pushed him away. And when he decided to tell him the truth, his someone had to up and die on him. So much for proof of concept. You didn’t die happy when the very source of your power was pain. How Eliot hadn’t gone nuclear at this point, he really didn’t know.

  


Eliot had books to read. Magazines. He could people watch through the wide infirmary windows. But he could never focus on anything long enough to keep him out of his head. It didn’t matter how much he slept. He always woke up feeling exhausted and just wanting that exhaustion to end. 

  


All this power welling up in him needed to kill him or undo everything, already.

  


He was starting to lose track of time, but every time he closed his eyes, he could see slim hands twitching. Dark eyes darting back and forth. Brown hair falling forward to hide a smile. He could hear stammering and smell cheap aftershave. He could taste peaches and plums.

  


His stomach turned and an acrid taste filled his mouth. He rolled over, pressing his mouth to the pillow to keep it in. The last thing he wanted to do was the guy who fell to pieces. He’d worked so hard to become who he was. He wasn’t going to let it crumble because of a little heartbreak. He knew heartbreak. He understood it. He could survive it. He had to. 

  


Margo would never forgive him if he didn’t. 

  


He sucked in deep breaths and tried to pretend he didn’t feel the moisture on his cheeks as he pulled the pillow to him. 

  


His fingers brushed over metal and glass. 

  


His heart lurched. 

  


Quentin Coldwater was dead. Eliot was losing his mind. The best thing he could do was leave it be. Throw the phone and the temptation away and get a new one. 

  


That would be the sensible thing to do. But Eliot wasn’t sensible these days. He was raw. And desperate. And not on an inconsiderable amount of pain meds. 

  


With a shaking hand, he held the phone up and unlocked the screen. The battery light flashed at him in warning before it took him to his latest messages. Everyone seemed to be checking on him. Margo and Josh, he’d expected. But even Julia suddenly seemed worried. 

  


And there, tucked in among all of them. Quentin. 

**_  
_ **

**_Sorry if I scared you. It’s really me._ **

**_  
_ **

**_I can only send so many messages per day. But they’re letting me send them._ **

**_  
_ **

**_Are you okay?_ **

  


And Eliot couldn’t breathe. His heart lodged itself in his throat. The world spun around him and narrowed in on the phone in front of him. His hands shook. His eyes burned. But there it was. Either he was now so crazy that his hallucinations were carrying over day to day or…

  


...or Quentin was texting him from the underworld. 

  


The smart thing would be to call for a doctor or a nurse to confirm what he was seeing. Or to put the phone away and pretend he hadn’t seen it. But that was never going to be an option. 

  


Before he could stop himself, his fingers flew over the keyboard. 

**_  
_ **

**_In the infirmary. Bored as hell but alive. How are you?_ **

  


Which just sounded stupid. How was he. Dead, that’s what he was. Eliot scrubbed a hand over his face and struggled to suck in a deep, even breath. This place was getting to him. He wasn’t thinking straight. 

  


The battery light flashed again in warning just as the phone buzzed in his hand. 

**_  
_ **

**_I miss you._ **

  


And then the screen went dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to give notes for future revisions!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends don't let friends talk to dead people.

Eliot didn’t let his phone lose battery life again. If it went down even a bar, it went right back on the charger. After all, he expected it took up a lot of power to send and receive messages from the other side like that. 

**_It doesn’t hurt._ **

Quentin had had to reassure him about half a dozen times before Eliot could finally trust that he was really, truly okay.

**_Everything here really is nice. It’s just kind of boring. There’s a place where people with unfinished business are supposed to wait, but if I want to talk to you, I have to be in Penny’s waiting room. It’s the least Penny place I’ve ever seen, but he actually seems happy here._**

There were explanations. There were apologies. There was gossip...well. That was mostly Eliot keeping Quentin up to date on the little things. Margo was dating Josh, which was a hell of a surprise, and Kady had basically decided to become a one-woman magical law enforcement army, which surprised absolutely nobody. She was scary good at it. 

Somehow, every time they texted, it always seemed to circle back to FIllory. 

**_Do you ever wonder how our boy’s life turned out?_ **

**_Do you think we met grandchildren and didn’t even know it?_ **

**_Do you still crave peaches and plums?_ **

**_Don’t you just want to punch every mosaic you see, now?_ **

Their words blended into each other, until he couldn’t remember who’d said what. He didn’t bother checking. It didn’t matter. Fifty years and they’d formed a rhythm, they’d fit into each others’ space so easily. And now, even apart, they were doing it again. Fitting together the way old couples did. 

And then Margo found out. 

“What kind of Patrick Swayze bullshit is this?”

Eliot jerked awake to find Margot folded over, her perfectly manicured fingers flicking through his messages.

He sighed and slumped back against the pillows.

“Good morning to you, too.”

“You know, I thought I was disappointed when you wiki’d Harry Potter and the Song of Ice and Fire. I thought I was disappointed when you gave up on the Fillory series halfway through and never bothered to pick them up again when you became high king. But this?” She dropped the phone on the bed at his feet, knowing full and well how much it hurt him to sit up, much less lean over to pick it up. “This is literally you talking to a dead guy.”

Eliot folded his hands over his stomach. He’d learned a long time ago that, when Margo was pissed, you got still and you sure as hell did no test her. 

“It’s not some random dick pick from the beyond, Margo. It’s Quentin.”

“Who died!” Margo’s heels clicked as she paced in front of him. “I miss him, too. We all miss him, El. Shit, Alice very nearly needed to be carted off to a mental hospital because of it. None of us are okay, here. But you need to face the fact that Quentin is dead. And this isn’t niffin dead. This is body disintegrated, gone off to that Doctor Who convention in the sky dead.”

Eliot licked his lips and took a deep breath.

“I know.” 

“Then why?” She sank down onto the bed by his feet, and for just a moment, her eyes were wide and vulnerable, just enough for him to see Bambi under the high queen of Fillory. The destroyer. This close, she smelled like fresh baked cookies. Josh’s kitchen, no doubt.

A lump formed in his throat. Eliot swallowed, but that only seemed to make it worse. 

“Because, if it weren’t for me, Margo, he wouldn’t be dead.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Margo leaned forward. “You didn’t kill him. You didn’t kill any of the gods, either. This is all the monster’s fault.”

“And if I’d just kept my shit together he’d have spent a year babysitting something that wouldn’t have killed anyone.” He sucked in a shaking breath and, dammit! He hadn’t cried since that first night he’d come to. He’d been so sure he’d gotten it all out of his system. These drugs were not the good kind to mask things. He scrubbed his face with an unsteady hand. “Look. I screwed up. And that thing got me. And because of that, I spent a year hiding while that thing killed and mained its way around the world. I attracted the library’s attention. If I hadn’t done that, we could have spent that time finding a way to free Quentin without anyone dying at all.”

Margo’s lip’s thinned, but her shoulders rounded as she slumped forward, just a bit. Just close enough that he could smell cinnamon on her, too. Not just cookies. Snickerdoodles. 

“Maybe that’s true, because hindsight’s a motherfucker,” she allowed. “But hindsight is in the past. We’re magicians. Things get broken and people die. I know what Q meant to you. I know what he meant to everyone. But right now, you’ve got until you can walk to figure your shit out, El.”

“I just thought I’d go back to the Cottage,” he murmured.

“What, and live out the rest of your life as that weird old dude who never left his alma mater?” Margo shook her head. “We’re technically done with school. Dean Fogg’s giving us our diplomas. Fen’s got Fillory and I kind of got myself banished so I could come and find you, and they don’t need a high king anymore. So we get to decide what to do with our lives, now.”

Eliot sniffed and wiped his face again. No new tears, at least. He was getting it together. 

“Didn’t we always talk about running a bathhouse?”

“Maybe.” Margo shrugged. “I just know, when I was Janet, I was really, really good at being in charge. I think I even kind of liked being queen when it wasn’t absolute hell. So whatever I do, I’m not working for someone else. And I’m not pulling someone else’s weight around.” 

“So...no bathhouse?” Eliot blinked. “I thought we needed a plan.”

“My plan for the moment is to be a helper. I’m going to help Josh get a restaurant up and going. I’m going to help Kady on a reputation with her new private detective schtick. Collect some generous commissions. But if you can pull a bathhouse together I wouldn’t mind it.”

“Not going to help me with that part?”

Margo gave him a sad smile and leaned forward, pressing her soft lips to his forehead. If he closed his eyes, he could pretend they were in earlier times, before destiny and adventure came knocking. Just him and Bambi and being fucking amazing magicians. He felt warm and safe.

And then she was pulling away, and the cold seeped back in.

“I think you’ve still got healing to do, El. And I want to help you as soon as you know what you need me to do. So consider this a postgraduate research assignment. Figure out your shit. I want regular reports.” She picked the phone up. “And remember who’s still alive, El. Who’s still here to be with you. Don’t give Q more unfinished business.”

Eliot took he phone back silently.

That night, hours after she’d left, the phone buzzed and Eliot reached for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave comments with feedback for future revisions!


	4. Hiatus

Apologies. This is a notice that I've got this fic temporarily (possible indefinitely?) on hold. I was working on it to work through something I wanted to translate into an original concept, but in the time since I started the combination of a very real loss and the increasing urgency of my current novel debut and grad school have once more made it very difficult to dip into fanfiction.

Thank you so much to everyone who's read so far and offered feedback! Hopefully this story will either take off again or transform into an original novella.


End file.
